


wipe those dirty hands on me

by nobirdstofly



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, First Time, Growing Up Together, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-07 06:25:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16403009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobirdstofly/pseuds/nobirdstofly
Summary: “Remember when we got stuck in Chicago a couple years back?” Jon says, plopping down on the mattress next to Tommy’s feet. “Snowstorm of the century."





	wipe those dirty hands on me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gdgdbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/gifts).
  * Inspired by [mob prince jon & consigliere tommy](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/433633) by gdgdbaby. 



> this world was the best thing I could've asked for, and I hope I did it some sort of justice! please keep this hella safe and secret. title from "halo" by bloc party.
> 
> HUGE thank you to the poor people who listened to me scream about this - you are the best, most supportive, most amazing friends!

Chicago is a shitshow all around. It’s a fucking mess before they even take off, and it's the kind of assignment they'll refer to in dark tones for years to come. Will look at each other and say, _Well, at least it's not like Chicago_.   
  
They’re still in Boston when Tommy gets antsy about how he doesn’t have his gun on him, even though he does have a wicked plastic knife he snuck through security, and he’s deadlier with his hands than most people are with a weapon. He keeps going back and forth between watching everyone around them like a hawk, and watching Jon with something like concern on his face. 

They’re not on the plane yet, only at the gate, when Jon nearly has a panic attack, his hands shaking so hard that Tommy holds his boarding pass for him. He doesn’t quite remember how he ends up in his window seat in first class with his eyes closed, clenching the armrests, trying not to feel the thrum of the engines while everyone else boards.

He knows it’s because of Tommy, though. Tommy, who’s leaning over him, who gives his own hand for Jon to squeeze as hard as he needs to, even though it has to be painful. Who orders liquor for them with the confidence of a barely-of-age mafioso in first class who doesn’t get IDed no matter how young he looks.

Tommy gets him drunk and talks about nothing for the next two and a half hours, and Jon doesn’t know if he’s ever been more grateful to anyone in his life. He’s exhausted by the time they deplane, shaky with leftover adrenaline and far from sober.

“You can pass out,” Tommy says, when they’re in the back of the car, and even though he’s in an unfamiliar place with a stranger behind the wheel, Jon doesn’t think twice, leaning his head against the window and closing his eyes. If Tommy says it's safe, then it's safe. 

It’s snowing when they pull up outside a hotel downtown, and everything feels a little softer, a little quieter here, but maybe that’s Jon’s sleep-addled brain talking. The hotel is opulent, like something out of a bygone era. It’s all candelabras and chandeliers and ornate frescoes on the ceiling.

“We’ll go to the house tomorrow,” Tommy says after checking them in, purposely not saying _safe house_ , of course. “Just thought this would be cool for tonight.”

“Totally,” Jon says, distracted by a gigantic angel statue with curved wings. “Does the boss know he’s paying for this?”

“Call it an early Christmas present,” Tommy says, waving him off. It’s barely even November, which means that Tommy’s the one footing the bill. Which, in turn, means that they are, for once, off the grid. Isolated from Jon’s dad, for a single night.

Jon reaches out to touch one of the statue’s wings, turning to smile at him. “Thanks, man. This is great.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
Jon is eleven when a kid shows up on their doorstep, looking like he’s trying to imitate the grim-faced man who drops him off. He’s older and taller and bigger than Jon, and Jon doesn’t like any of it.

“Jonathan, this is Thomas. He’s going to be your friend,” his father says, and Jon can’t help but break composure, looking at his dad in confusion. He’s not allowed to have friends, they just had a giant fight about it two weeks ago, when Jon couldn’t go to yet another birthday party. The last person he wants for a friend is this weedy, pale kid who looks like he’s never even heard the word _fun_ in his life.

“Tommy,” the kid says, sticking out his hand to shake Jon’s, and then he smiles, just slightly. A small, sad thing that still transforms his whole face. Makes him look younger and less serious.

Jon feels his own mouth twitch up, he can’t help it, and he decides he wants to make Tommy smile all the time. Jon usually gets what he wants. “I’m Jon.”

Suddenly, Jon has someone to play catch with and watch movies with and to commiserate with. Someone who nods along and agrees and reassures Jon it’ll be okay. The au pair he had when he was a kid always did that, and Helena, the housekeeper, still does, but it’s different with Tommy. Tommy’s closer to his age, and he’s as stuck in this life as Jon is.

It takes a long time for him to realize that Tommy likes all the things Jon does because he has to. That he does the things Jon wants to by default, that he’s not allowed to have his own taste or opinions.

When Jon does put it together, it’s terrible for both of them. It ends with Jon trying not to cry, yelling, “Just tell me when I’m being stupid!”

And Tommy yelling back, red-faced, “Fine! I will!” Then it’s quiet for a second until Tommy says, “Right now. You’re being stupid right now.”

Jon can’t help it. It starts with a wet snort, and then he can’t stop laughing. Tommy joins in, and they end up slumped against the wall, shoulder to shoulder, laughing until their ribs hurt.

“Seriously,” Jon says, when they’ve settled down. “No one else will tell me.”

Tommy looks at him, too stern for his age, and nods. “I’ll try.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
They meet up with a contact before their late morning family meeting the next day, because Tommy refuses to go any longer in an unfamiliar city without a gun — and he especially refuses to go to the next meeting without one.

Jon’s inhaling coffee and picking at his hash browns when he notices the woman, who’s just slid a reusable grocery bag across the diner table with two handguns in it, is smiling coyly at Tommy across the table.  
  
"So how long are you in town for?" she says, leaning on the table. Getting closer.

“Is that it?” Jon asks before Tommy can open his mouth, aware of how petulant he sounds.

She turns to him and, with a lot less warmth in her voice, names a price higher than what they’d discussed previously.

“Nice try,” Jon says, and tosses a small zippered pouch over the table to her. She startles and nearly drops it. “Take it or leave it.”

“I’d recommend you do the first,” Tommy adds, smiling a little even though he sounds exasperated.

After she leaves and Tommy’s moved to the other side of the booth to face Jon, he says, “What, I’m not allowed to get laid for the next six weeks?”

“We’re here on business,” Jon mumbles into his coffee, a grin forced out of him when Tommy laughs. “You got the— you know. What else do you need?”

Tommy just smirks to him, and Jon looks away, feeling his face heat up. It’s going to be a long month and a half. Jon’s never spent so much time away from home, and he’s glad to have Tommy here with him, watching his back.

Their next meeting is more to the point, and far less jovial. The boss’s contacts are polite but not exactly respectful of Jon. They give him a pithy rundown on the family’s operations in Chicago, less even than was in Jon’s briefing back home. They're assuming he's nothing more than a pretty face, less than a stand-in for the boss, giving him the broad strokes only. 

He watches as Tommy shifts on his feet, uneasy. Jon mentally wills him to hold back, praying this won’t be one of those times Tommy gets so pissed he snaps. Jon knows the right questions to ask, knows how to press them for more details, so he does. He's a mediator, and a talker, and he knows how to swing people around to his side. He’s got this, with or without Tommy’s new guns.

By the end of it, the assholes are showing Jon the respect he deserves, not just as the boss’s son, but as a boss in his own right. There’s backslapping and grinning as he outlines his plans for growth and control measures and the future. They're practically eating out of his hand.

He hears a grizzled old-timer say to Tommy, “That kid’s got guts. He’s gonna be something.”

Tommy smiles over at Jon. “He already is.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
Tommy gets taught to shoot when he turns fourteen. Well, taught to shoot real guns. He’s already had plenty of experience with pellet guns, he says, and, thanks to Jon, laser and paintball guns, too. Somehow, he convinces Jon’s dad to let Jon tag along.

It always gets to Jon, the way Tommy will stand up to his dad the way no one else will. Maybe it’s a byproduct of standing up to Jon, but Tommy will look the boss in the eye and ask for things in a way Jon’s never seen anyone else do, including himself.

Tommy’s a natural, and by the end of the day he’s edged within the few rings surrounding the bullseye. Jon is serviceable, but the range owner, who’s cleared the course of everyone but them, is fawning so much it makes Jon’s teeth clench.

He tries to stay quiet, but the dozenth time the owner says something simpering, he snaps, “Shut up! I barely even hit the freaking target!”

He slams the gun down on the counter, and he can see the owner staring at him wide-eyed, frightened in the way people — normal, non-family people — sometimes look at him. Then Tommy’s in front of him, hands raised like he’s calming a spooked horse. Tommy had a growth spurt in the last few months, putting him another inch above Jon. Jon _hates_ it, hates the way now all he can see when Tommy is this close is his chest, the way his shirts are too tight at his shoulders. He needs to get clothes that fit, maybe Helena will — Jon jerks his head up.

“Chill,” Tommy says, resting his hands on Jon’s shoulders. Not holding him in place or applying pressure, just centering him. “Let me show you, okay?”

Jon nods, and Tommy shoos away the owner, who is all too glad to leave two teenagers unsupervised with semi-automatic weapons.

Tommy waits until Jon picks the gun back up, and then circles, crowding close behind him. “Go on, aim,” he says, and waits until Jon does before he lays his own hands over Jon’s. If he notices the fine tremor in Jon’s body, he doesn’t say anything.

“Relax a little,” he says, and it’s like he’s saying the words into Jon’s ear. “You’re too tense.”

Jon tries to ignore how he can feel the warmth of Tommy right behind him, only a few inches away. Tries to think about anything other than how he’d dreamed of Tommy the other night. Of Tommy in his bed, so, so close. Almost like he was — almost like _they_ were —

“Okay, pull the trigger.”

Jon’s improved by the end, and he’s at least hitting the target every time, inching closer to the center with each try. He’s not sure how much ammo they go through, but the sun is low in the sky by the time they pack it in.

“Just remember,” Tommy tells him as they get into the back of the armored town car, “aim for the chest, the stomach. Central body mass— way bigger target to hit.”

“Thought it was all about headshots,” Jon jokes.

Tommy laughs. “I’ll take care of those for you.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
In the days leading up to their trip, Tommy had been reading a biography of Frank Lloyd Wright. Somehow, he convinces Jon to go on a nearly six-hour long bus tour devoted to a dead man’s architectural feats.

“You don’t have to come,” Tommy says, his face going red. “I wanted to just do the boat tour, but it’s closed for the season and—”

“Dude, it’s fine. It’ll be nice to have a day off from the business.”

And it will be. They’ve both been so swamped in meetings and negotiations and being go-betweens for the guys here and the boss, not to mention exhaustive talks with the Outfit. Jon flew in Tanya and Elijah after the first week, refusing to trust anyone else, and the four of them are ready to kill each other staying together in the tiny safe house their Chicago chapter arranged.

Jon and Tommy have been bunking together, because Jon’s not going to tell Tanya she has to share with anyone, and he doesn’t need Tommy strangling Elijah for snoring. It’s fine, the bed is big and they’ve been so tired that they barely have time to say _goodnight_ before they pass out, much less make it awkward.

It shouldn’t be awkward anyway, Jon tells himself. They’ve shared together before, countless times. Just because they haven’t shared the same bed since growing into adults doesn’t mean anything. If Jon wakes up hard more often than not, it’s fine. Tommy’s usually already up and going for a run, or, one memorable morning, doing one-handed push-ups in the space between the bed and the door.

Jon had pretended to go back to sleep, refusing to let himself watch how Tommy’s muscles bunched in his broad shoulders. Trying not to listen to his little grunts of effort.

So the tour is a nice break from routine, from the stresses of running a branch of the family, even if it means Jon’s pressed up against Tommy on a charter bus for hours. Tommy was the smart one, who passed a dramamine and bottle of water into Jon’s hands an hour before they got onboard. Jon gives him the window seat and listens as Tommy narrates everything else he knows that the guide — who’s remarkably thorough — leaves out.

They get pizza afterward, at some place on the north side where they have to wait an hour for it to be ready.

“It’s authentic,” Tommy says, through gobs of cheese and bread, and Jon laughs because he’s tipsy off two beers and not eating since that morning.

He likes this city, with its rattling old trains and its drawbridges and how ice forms on the wide river that runs through its heart. Likes it despite the brutal wind and the snow that coats the streets early in the mornings so they slip when they try to cross. Likes the way Tommy’s ears and cheeks and the tip of his nose stay so pink even after they’ve found a dark panelled bar to hole up in after dinner.

For a day, they feel like normal kids on vacation, or a weekend off. This is how it might have been if Jon had gotten to go to college. Had moved away to a new city and started fresh, somewhere he wasn’t mob royalty. Somewhere with less responsibility, where they could order another beer and stay out too late. This place is warm and dark, and it's open until 4am. Jon wishes they could stay till then, see where they'd end up if he didn't have their world on his shoulders.

Would they still be here together, though, in this strange city? How would they even know one another? What would have brought them together, if not the family? It'd have been impossible; the odds stacked against them. 

Sometimes, though. Sometimes, Jon looks at Tommy and thinks, _Maybe_.  
  
  
***  
  
  
When Tommy is sixteen, Jon fifteen, Tommy starts going out with Mariah Flynn. It’s not the first time he’s dated someone, not by a long shot. But it is the first date that’s with someone from a different family, instead of a complete outsider or someone from within theirs. It’s boringly boss-approved, just like the dates Jon’s been on, but Mariah’s gorgeous. All dark features and a perfect, generous smile, smart and sharp-witted alike.

She’s always been sweet to Jon, at every confirmation and funeral and mandatory gathering when their paths have crossed, but he feels strangely bitter toward her now. She’s great, but how could she possibly be good enough for Tommy?

Tommy comes back from their third date beaming. He practically has a spring in his step. He barges into Jon’s room without knocking and collapses onto the other side of the bed where Jon’s reading, grinning stupidly over at him.

Jon makes a show of rolling his eyes and folding down the corner of the page he’s on, mostly to see Tommy make an annoyed face about it. He’s constantly trying to give Jon bookmarks, but Jon just loses them. He tends to use post-it notes, since they stick to the page, but he started keeping the bookmarks Tommy gives him a couple years ago, and never stopped.

They’re all in a drawer in his desk, tucked away next to the notebooks filled with his old writing. He should really just throw them out.

“So how was your date?” Jon asks, like Tommy expects him to. Just like Tommy had for all of Jon’s three dates, even though they were unbearably dull. All the girls were pretty enough, and certainly well connected enough, he’s just not particularly interested in anyone except — he’s not interested in anyone.

“Amazing,” Tommy says, a little starry-eyed. He rolls onto his side to look at Jon. “She was — wanna hear about it?”

Jon doesn’t know if this is normal. If this is the kind of things normal high school boys do, and since he doesn’t really have any other friends, since everyone’s cautious ( _afraid_ ) of getting close to him, he’ll probably never know.

Tommy’s smile widens. “She, well. You know what she looks like, but she— god, man. She gave me a _blowjob_. Can you believe that?”

“Oh,” Jon says, trying not to squirm in place, trying to meet Tommy’s eyes like he can’t feel his face heating up.

“Jesus, dude, it was— fucking unreal. It’s like, jerking off times a million, you know?”

 _No_ , Jon thinks, petulant, because how would he? He shakes his head.

Tommy laughs. “Okay, well. I know you’ve jerked off,” Tommy says, and his cheeks are stained a bright pink. They’ve talked about that, too. Traded tricks and tips, talked about what feels the best. “It was just— so wet, and warm, and _good_. I can’t even explain.”

“Hmm,” Jon says, nodding. “Yeah, I can’t imagine. Must’ve been great.”

“Jesus, it was,” Tommy says, turning onto his back. “She did this thing with her tongue, and—”

“I get it, okay,” Jon says, embarrassed of how pitchy the words come out.

Tommy holds up his hands, looking over at Jon with a smug smile on his face. “Alright, alright, got the message.”

“Sorry, I just.” Jon scrubs his hands over his face. “I’m happy for you, okay?”

Tomm reaches over and socks him in the arm, light as anything. “You’ll get your first blowjob, Favs. I promise.”

“I—,” Jon says. “Yeah, totally.”

Tommy stares at him, eyebrows drawn together. “What’s up?”

Jon chews at his lip for a minute before giving in with a sigh. “It’s not fair. You’re out there, with, with _Mariah_ , getting to— to third base, and I haven’t even gotten to…”

“To what?”

“To first.”

“First is making out,” Tommy clarifies.

“I know.”

Tommy’s voice is high-pitched in disbelief when he says, “Never?”

“You don’t have to be such a dick about it,” Jon says, gritting his teeth.

“Whoa, whoa.” Tommy sits up a little and shakes Jon’s shoulder until he looks at him. “I didn’t mean— I was just surprised, that’s all. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Jon feels some of the anger seep out of him, staring up at Tommy. Jon tells him pretty much everything, but maybe Tommy just assumed that Jon kept a few kisses out of the rotation of shared secrets.

“Yeah?” Jon says, a little horrified by how young he sounds, his voice small.

Tommy’s just looking at him, then he looks down for a second, away from Jon. His cheeks are going pink again, the blush spreading down his neck into the open collar of his shirt, an extra button undone. Probably thanks to his date.

“For sure,” Tommy says, letting go of Jon and standing up. He’s nearly to the door when he says casually, over his shoulder, “You’ll be kissing all the girls, just wait.”

A week later, Jon goes on his next date, encouraged by his dad. Layla is the daughter of an up-and-comer in another family who wants to make connections with Jon’s. Jon hates being trotted out like this, used as a bargaining chip, but Layla is cute enough, if a little mean. He takes her to a nice restaurant he’s never tried, laughs at her brutal sarcasm, gets lightheaded off the tiny glasses of wine they’re given, and really thinks he might get his first kiss tonight.

Tommy’s at a table nearby with their driver, Gil, both of them sharing a meal while ostensibly not watching Jon, and, more importantly, everyone around him. Tommy nods when Jon catches his eye, then pulls a stupid face that never fails to make Jon laugh. Jon turns it into a cough awkwardly, and ignores the way Layla looks at him suspiciously.

Overall, it’s going fine, and Jon doesn’t realize what’s happening until his stomach starts hurting while they share a dessert. It’s not until he’s on his back on the floor with black edging out his vision that he thinks something’s actually wrong.

“Hang on, okay?” Tommy’s saying, kneeling over him. “Just hang on.”

Jon nods and watches blearily as Tommy pulls away, standing over him. Jon lets his eyes close, and he hears a gunshot, then two more, then silence. He’s drifting off when suddenly Tommy’s weight is on him, and there’s a slap against his cheek.

“Wake the fuck up,” Tommy says. “It’s not time to go yet.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
They get the word from Tanya that the job is about to go pear-shaped as they’re walking into what’s supposed to be the final meeting in a warehouse by the lake — a parting celebration of establishing this arm of the family in their own right. A farewell to Jon and a welcoming to a new future for this chapter of the boss’s reach. For the family. 

“Something’s sideways, boss,” Tanya says. “Sure you don’t want a gun?”

“I’m sure.” Jon’s a good shot these days, but he still doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like how he feels when he holds a gun, or what happens when he pulls the trigger. He’ll never have Tommy’s ease with them.

“Suit yourself. Just don’t put your backs to them.”

It turns out _everything_ is sideways, all thanks to some internal coup where a bunch of the low-ranking goons got offered better gigs by another family. They don’t say who, but Jon’s money is on the cartel that's been encroaching from the suburbs. There’s no way these guys won’t get killed by whoever paid them off for information, likely before the checks ever clear, but he’d been unimpressed with these guys’ wits for the last month, he’s not surprised now.

Tanya bursts in once the shooting starts, and her and Tommy are a sight to behold. They weave in and out of their enemies in sync, always protecting Jon and each other. Thankfully most of their guys are still on Jon’s side, so it’s a pretty unfair fight, and most of the turncoats are dead on the ground in minutes, the others running for the exits.

“Get the car,” Jon says to Tanya, but she’s already running for the door.

Tommy takes down a straggler and turns to Jon, his expression almost feral. “You—?”

He was probably going to ask if Jon’s okay. Instead he’s cut off by a guy slamming into him. Asshole must have been hiding in another room or something, because one second they’re alone and the next some goon has knocked Tommy’s gun out of his hand and has his knife to Tommy’s throat.

“Don’t try anything stupid,” he says, but Jon’s already picked up the gun, without a second thought. “I’m serious!” the guy yells, his knife pressing closer to Tommy’s throat.

“Jon’s the farthest thing from stupid,” Tommy chides him, even as his adam’s apple bobs against the blade. The words are a joke, meant to be snide, but his expression is shuttered, almost serene.

“I’ve got nothing to lose!” the guy warns, and Jon’s pulling the trigger before he makes a conscious decision to.

“Yeah,” he says, as the guy slumps to the floor. “You do.”

Tommy had instinctively jerked away, and Jon’s not a perfect shot, so he got the guy through his cheek instead of his forehead, leaving Tommy mostly unbloodied. The guy’s still alive, though, Jon can hear him cursing.

All Jon can see is red, and he’s on his knees beside the asshole, bringing his fist down so hard he hears bone crack, probably already shattered by the gunshot.

“Jon, the knife!” he hears Tommy yell, but he sounds far away.

It’s not until Jon sees the glint off the blade in his peripheral vision that it clicks that the guy’s still holding it, somehow didn’t drop it when he was shot, and that it’s heading toward Jon’s side. Jon picks up the gun again, and it only takes one more bullet for the guy to stop moving.

“Jon, we gotta go, come on,” Tommy’s saying, but all Jon can hear is the ringing of the shot in his ears. Tommy tugs him up, and Jon clutches at Tommy’s shirt, willing his stomach not to revolt when he sees the gore on his own hands.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Jon is fifteen, and the next thing he knows is a beeping sound, soft and steady. When he opens heavy eyes, the ceiling is white, the walls are white, the machines he’s hooked up to are white, and the paper gown he’s in is white. His throat is so, so sore, his chest raw, and he hears his heart rate pick up on the monitor.

Then he sees Tommy sitting by the window, passed out in a visitor’s chair, head tipped back against the sill. Jon settles, watching Tommy’s chest move up and down, and tries to match it. He’s still watching him when the nurse comes in.

“Good to see you up,” she says, smiling at Jon. She lifts a cup with a straw to his mouth, and the water is gratifyingly cool and sweet.

Jon is so tired, and everything is starting to get blurry again. He sees the nurse glance over at Tommy, and he follows her gaze. Tommy’s blinking sleepily, awake now and grinning at Jon.

“He’s been here the whole time,” the nurse says.

“That’s his job,” Jon mumbles, before he passes out again.

It’s another day or so before Jon wakes up for real, less groggy and in a lot more pain. Tommy is in the same chair, clothes rumpled and hair disheveled, reading. He hasn’t realized Jon’s awake yet, intent on his book. Jon just watches him until Tommy looks up, like he could feel the weight of Jon’s stare. If it would hold any weight, Jon doesn’t know.

Tommy smiles at him, though it’s careful and small. “How’re you feeling?” Jon groans dramatically, and Tommy laughs. “You’ll be fine. Just a little light poisoning.”

“What—?” he asks, or tries to ask. He barely gets out the word, and then the dryness in his throat turns into a cough.

There’s a paper cup at his lips before he thinks to ask, Tommy tipping it so water slides past his cracked lips. Tommy looks frightened, and for the first time Jon sees how ashen he is. He holds the cup as Jon finishes it, patiently tipping it each time Jon swallows.

“I’m fine,” Jon makes himself say, his voice croaky. “Like you said, I only got poisoned.”

“Yup.” Tommy sets the cup aside, his smile tight.

“What the fuck happened?”

“It was in the wine they gave us,” Tommy says. “She tried to fucking take you out right there, during a fucking— _date_. Like you’re not just teenagers.”

“What about you?”

“I didn’t have any. I was working.” Tommy’s tone is brusque. “Gil had to get his stomach pumped.”

“Oh shit,” Jon breathes.

Tommy shrugs. “Serves him right. He’s irresponsible as fuck. I think the boss is gonna let him go.”

Tommy’s been doing that more often, lately — calling Jon’s dad _the boss_ , instead of _your dad_ , like he used to. It’s fine, Jon’s pretty used to it, but it’s odd coming from Tommy. It lacks the familiarity he thought they had. They’re best friends. They’re practically brothers, aren’t they?

They’re not, of course. Tommy works for Jon’s dad, for the boss. Technically, Tommy works for Jon, too. Or he will, someday. He’ll answer to Jon if Jon takes over the family like he’s supposed to. He’d answer to Jon now if Jon ever tried to wield that power.

“Let him go or ‘take care of him?’” Jon asks, not really wanting an answer.

Tommy shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“What happened to Layla?”

“Does it matter?” Tommy repeats, looking way.

Jon can’t breathe. “Did you—?”

“She tried to _kill_ you,” Tommy says, like Jon doesn’t know. Like he isn’t lying in a hospital bed.

“Her family did,” Jon argues. “What if, if my dad, you know. Would I deserve to—?”

“Of course not! That’s not the same thing!”

“How? Explain to me how I’m any freaking different.” Jon can tell his voice is getting too loud, but he can’t help it.

“Hey,” Tommy says, his hand on Jon’s chest, “chill out, man.”

It’s only then that Jon can hear the incessant, rapid beeping. His heart, beating so fast it hurts a little in his chest where he aches. To be fair, everything kind of hurts right now. He just hadn’t noticed it at first, with the sensation of being awake and, more importantly, alive.

“You need to calm down.” Tommy sounds worried, his voice a little high-pitched. “Just breathe, okay?” he’s saying, shoving Jon over so he can lie down next to him, facing him with his hand on Jon’s chest, pressing like he can control Jon’s lungs somehow. “Count with me, okay?”

It’s a few long moments before the machine quiets, back to a regular, calmer BPM. Tommy’s still there, hand on Jon’s chest, one of Jon’s hands splayed across it from when he was trying to follow Tommy’s lead. He doesn’t move his hand when he rolls his head on the pillow to look at Tommy.

“Guess I’m not getting that first kiss yet,” he jokes.

Tommy goes a little still, the way he does sometimes when he’s thinking too hard. Their faces are so close. Close enough Jon can feel Tommy’s exhales. He wishes he could feel Tommy’s inhales, too, whatever that means. Tommy’s eyes dart down, like he’s looking at Jon’s mouth, almost, except that would —

“Jon,” Tommy says, and his voice is little more than breath. “ _Jon_.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say as Tommy leans closer, as Jon can still feel Tommy’s breath on his face, as —

The nurse walks in, smile on her face even as she says to Tommy, “You shouldn’t be up there. You could hurt him.”

“Right, sorry.” Tommy scrambles backward off the bed, retreating to his chair.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Time moves in little skips, starting and stopping so that all Jon remembers are pieces from immediately afterward. Fleeting moments that mark this new phase of his life. The part that starts after he’s ended someone's life for the first time. After he pulled the trigger and wished someone dead all in the same breath. After he killed to protect his best friend.  

He doesn’t know he’s going to kiss Tommy until he does, matching the surprised noise that Tommy makes as Jon presses their lips firmly together, his hands fisted in the front of Tommy’s dress shirt once the nausea has passed, leaving a strung out feeling of relief in its place.

He releases him in the next breath, stepping back when Tommy reaches for him. “We have to go,” Jon says, and Tommy’s face hardens immediately, eyes sweeping for the nearest exit, alert. Looking for the fastest way to get them to safety.

He doesn’t remember the body, just knows he doesn’t look at it again after Tommy pulls him to his feet. He does remember Tanya picking them up, her leather jacket torn over her shoulder. “Just a graze, boss,” she says, but Jon sees the blood on her skin, sees how she only drives with her left arm. She drops them off at a new place, popping the trunk so Tommy can grab their bags.

Jon stares up at the house, so big it’s practically a mansion, thinking longingly of the hotel from their first night in this godforsaken city. Some of the windows are broken, and it looks like it should have been condemned years ago. It’s started snowing, swirling white through the night, and Jon thinks of Thornfield as he counts the dark windows to slow his breathing.

“C’mon,” Tommy says, walking ahead of him.

The next thing he knows, they’re inside, standing across from each other in the dark in what was probably a living room at one point, a good ten feet between them. Tommy’s shoulders are moving with how hard he’s breathing, and Jon’s afraid of the tightness in his chest abating. If it releases, he’s not sure what will follow.

“I’m so—” he starts, but Tommy interrupts him.

“Don’t apologize. Elijah already cleared the house, he’ll be back in the morning with more food.”

They can't  _not_ talk about it, not when Jon's whole world has been reordered. “Tommy, we—”

“What the hell, Jon?” Tommy's not looking at him, crouching on the ground and focused on changing the batteries in a camp lantern, using a small flashlight to see. “Just— what the fuck, man?”

Jon feels the shaky feeling he can’t get rid of flood to his stomach. Tommy doesn’t seem angry, exactly, but maybe it’s just his professional mask in place.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t— we don’t have to, I’ll never do it again.”

Tommy’s brow furrows, and Jon can see every plane of his face in the harsh light of the lantern. “You can't do that. You can't— I'm here to protect _you_ , you can't.” Tommy makes a sound almost like a growl. “He almost got his fucking knife in you!”

 _Oh_ , Jon thinks. Tommy doesn't mean the kiss. He means everything else. Jon’s chest thaws, righteousness burning its way through him.

“What, I was just supposed to let him? Just fucking stand idly by while— I couldn’t let him kill you!”

“Yes, you can! You have to. If it comes down to it, you _have_ to!” Tommy’s in his face now, gesturing with anger and, Jon thinks, fear. Tommy turns his head, looking away, and Jon grabs him, needs Tommy to look at him more than he needs anything else right now.

“I love you,” he says in a rush, his hands tight on Tommy’s face, just far enough away that he can get the words out. “I couldn’t lose— I couldn’t do any of this without you. You’re everything. You’ve always been—”

Tommy cuts him off with a kiss, pulling Jon in with a grip on his biceps. “You, too,” he mutters against Jon’s mouth. “So fucking much, you idiot.”

Jon’s bloody fingerprints are all over Tommy’s face when they separate, faint red whorls that mark him as Jon’s. Jon wishes, bizarrely, that it was his own blood, that he could somehow tie Tommy to him like that. He pushes the thought aside and kisses him again, thrilling with the knowledge that he can do it. That he can keep kissing Tommy, rough and deep and _perfect_.

Tommy herds him up the stairs in the dark, catching Jon when he stumbles from trying to touch Tommy all over and walk backwards at the same time.

“Eager,” Tommy says, smirking, like he’s not just as out of breath for it.

“You have no idea,” Jon says, tugging him along, trying to get to a bedroom faster.

He can’t stop thinking of the look on Tommy’s face back at the warehouse: pale but steady, resigned. Jon needs to see more of Tommy how he is now, smiling and fond, needs to see him while he’s turned on, while Jon’s making him feel good.

There’s another lantern in the master, sitting on an otherwise bare nightstand, but this one's working, lighting up a room that’s dominated by a big, wrought iron bed. Jon thinks it might be a king, but he’s not sure, and the next thing he is sure of is standing in front of a sink in the en suite bathroom, his reflection wan in the light from a flickering candle. He’s not wearing anything, Tommy must have —

Jon turns when he hears the sound of the shower starting. Tommy’s naked, too, reaching into the spray to the temperature of the water.

“No electricity, but the water’s running and the heat is all radiator, so we should be good for the night,” he’s explaining, and Jon just nods dumbly. Tommy looks up, and his expression softens as he looks at Jon. “Come on,” he says, and Jon finds himself pressed into the shower, under the warm spray.

The shower is big enough that Jon doesn’t realize Tommy’s followed him in until there’s a hand on his hip, turning him. He’s confronted with Tommy’s broad chest, flushed from the steam, and it’s easy in that moment to wrap his arms around Tommy and lean into him, ducking his head into Tommy’s shoulder, letting Tommy take his weight.

“It’s okay,” Tommy says to the top of Jon’s head. “I’m right here. _We’re_ right here. We’re okay.”

Tommy washes him off, and Jon lets himself be directed, going where Tommy puts him. He’s warm and clean of blood by the time Tommy wraps him in a threadbare towel, ushering him back toward the bed. The sheets are cool, and Jon shivers until Tommy’s pulling blankets up over them, wrapping in the warmth around them. Jon’s glad he didn’t have to ask Tommy to stay, that he chose to on his own.

“We should sleep. If you, uh, want,” Tommy says, not quite meeting his eyes. “I can hold you. If you roll over, I can—”

“No.” Jon’s voice is rough, and he wonders when the last time he said something was. “I want to see you.”

Tommy nods, and neither of them turn away, face to face, listening to the radiator clang. The lantern’s still on, so Tommy’s face is even more angular than normal, all bones and hollows in sharp relief. Jon traces his cheek, and Tommy turns his face into the touch, kissing Jon’s palm.

Jon can’t help the whimper, doesn’t even know where it came from, but it makes something in Tommy’s face crack open, and then he’s even closer, his knees knocking against Jon’s, overlapping so he can ease a thick thigh between Jon’s.

Jon hadn't known he was still hard until then, and he grinds into it, can feel the muscles there tensing like his do, jumping in his thighs as he moves against Tommy’s skin. Tommy shifts, and then suddenly Jon can feel his hard cock sliding against Jon’s thigh.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck,” Jon mutters, until Tommy kisses him quiet again, one of his hands firm on Jon’s jaw, keeping all his attention on Tommy. 

He’s rolling his hips, and Jon’s meeting him at every press, wanting to feel good, wanting _Tommy_ to feel good.

“That’s it. I’ve got you,” Tommy says, reaching down between them to wrap a hand around both their cocks, shushing the high-pitched noise Jon makes. He pulls back after a second and spits in his palm before taking them both back in hand. “I left our shit downstairs,” he explains, shrugging a little, like Jon is judging his technique. Like Jon is doing anything other than losing his mind right now.

Jon clutches at Tommy’s back, then his shoulder, holding on while he moves into the friction. It’s too dry and Tommy’s grip is a little too tight, but it’s perfect, too. It’s all perfect, that Jon can still feel nauseous about everything that happened before, about Tommy’s scared, resolute face and how his would-be killer sounded while he died, yet be so near the edge already that he feels like he can’t catch his breath.

“Close?” Tommy asks, like he knows, because of course he already knows. Jon nods and kisses him in answer, groaning as Tommy resituates to get his hand on Jon’s cock only, and now his grip is just right. Jon’s coming before he knows it’s happening, sudden sparks thrown up behind his closed eyes as he gasps, Tommy’s mouth hot on his throat as Jon spills into his hand.

Tommy doesn’t move away, after, and when Jon blinks and looks down, Tommy still has Jon’s come in his hand as he jacks himself, and Jon feels his dick twitch, like he could get hard again at just the thought.

“Fuck yeah, come on,” he says, leaning forward to kiss Tommy again, shoving his own hand down to cover Tommy’s. “Come on, I want you to.”

Tommy groans as he comes, wetness splashing across Jon’s belly and wrist. He presses a long, hard, closed-mouth kiss to Jon’s lips before he turns away to grab a towel. After, he crowds Jon onto his side so he can spoon up behind him, so close Jon can feel Tommy’s breath on the back of his neck. He slips slowly into sleep, feeling and hearing Tommy’s breathing slow, just this side of too warm beneath all the blankets.  
  
  
***

For three months out of every year, they’re the same age. Jon looks forward to it as soon as Tommy’s birthday is over, eager for his own to happen the following summer. It’s not like it actually _means_ anything, but it’s comforting, in a weird way. It makes him feel like there’s less distance between them, that Jon’s not just the boss’s dumb kid.

“How does it feel to be seventeen?” Jon asks from his poolside lounge chair, as if he’s not going to know in a few hours.

Tommy makes a move that looks like a shrug, but he can’t quite manage it floating on his back. “I guess like being sixteen? I don’t know.”

“Super helpful. Thanks, man,” Jon says, rolling his eyes. He walks to the edge of the pool so he can sit and drop his feet in, the water refreshingly cool on his shins.

He leans back even though the concrete is burning hot against his palms and looks at the sky, so he won’t look at Tommy. Tommy with his extra couple inches and several pounds more muscle. Tommy with his arms and his abs and his thighs. Tommy with his big hands and big — Jon lets himself slide into the pool, staring at the pale, wavering shape of Tommy’s legs under the water until he has to come up for air.

Jon gets his first blowjob five months later. Traci, a girl from his English class who he’s been slipping notes back and forth with all semester, is on her knees in the damp grass underneath the bleachers before school. She’d pushed Jon until the back of his head was pressed against the bottom of one of the rows. He holds onto the metal above him while Traci takes his cock into her mouth, so hard he feels dizzy.

It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt. He remembers Tommy saying _fucking unreal_ , and he gets it now.

Then, like Jon has summoned him with his memories somehow, Tommy is there, in front of Jon, standing just outside where the open-backed bleachers start, staring at him with his mouth open.

Jon means to gesture wildly at him, get him to walk away, or maybe even pull Traci up, she doesn’t deserve anyone spying on them, but then she does something with her tongue, and Jon can’t look away from how Tommy’s mouth is curving into a smirk, and that’s it. He’s too close, barely warning Traci in time for her to pull off, getting a hand around his cock to catch his come as he flushes under Tommy’s gaze.

Tommy’s gone when he looks up, and Jon thinks about it, after. About what if Tommy had stayed, had watched while Jon had pushed his hand up under Traci’s skirt, listened to her tell him what felt best.

The first time Jon gives a blowjob, he’s still seventeen. Tommy doesn’t interrupt that time.  
  
  
***

The room is bathed in white when he wakes up, reflective light coming so bright through the windows that Jon has to squint against it. He pushes himself up on his elbows, so he can see out the window, to where soft white blankets everything in sight.

“It’s almost twenty inches.” Tommy’s voice startles him and he jumps, turning to find Tommy leaning against the door, coffee in hand, watching Jon, not the snow.

“Creep. How long have you been standing there?”

Tommy’s grin turns lecherous even as he laughs. He’s in sweats and an old t-shirt, but he looks ready for the day as ever. Jon would put money on him already having done perimeter checks, some kind of exercise, and touching base with their team.

“The city’s practically shut down, so Elijah won’t be able to get us more food until the streets are cleared,” Tommy says, proving Jon right. “Tanya’s trying to find us a flight that’s not grounded, but it’s not looking good. It’s supposed to keep snowing.”

“Great,” Jon drawls, pulling a blanket around his shoulders, abruptly aware of how naked he is. “Love to get trapped in a city where people are trying to kill us.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, setting down his mug on the floor so he can walk to the bed. “Because no one ever tries to kill us at home.”

Jon sits up, unconsciously getting closer. He wants to reach for him, greedy for Tommy’s skin against his, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed in the literally cold light of day. Tommy stands at the foot of the bed, his hand trailing along the iron footboard before dropping to flex at his side, open and closed. Like he wants to grab something else.

“Come here,” Jon says, letting the blanket fall down farther, watching Tommy's eyes trip over his exposed skin.

“What for?” Tommy asks, but his hand finds Jon’s ankle through the layers of blankets.

Jon tips his head to the side, watching Tommy through half-closed eyes. “C’mere.”

“Why don’t you come to me?” Tommy’s hand tightens on Jon and he tugs, yanking him down the bed. Jon laughs, throwing his head back, more on the sheets than the pillow now. He’s still laughing when Tommy leans over and kisses him, both of them smiling so wide it’s a little sloppy.

Tommy’s mouth is minty with leftover toothpaste and bitter with coffee, but it’s the best thing Jon’s ever tasted. Tommy kisses him until his lips feel bruised, settled between his thighs, shoving at Jon so they're lying crossways across the mattress.

Jon gasps when he feels the weight of him, forcing him to spread his legs wider. Tommy breaks off to kiss his way down Jon’s neck, his chest, pausing to lick at a nipple, which startles a huff out of Jon. Then he’s down farther, kissing just below his belly button, his hands on Jon’s hips.

He looks up at Jon, and the faint sunlight catches on his eyelashes, turning them almost gold. That’s what Jon’s watching when Tommy takes the head of his cock into his mouth, before he’s not watching anything at all, eyes screwed shut as he moans. Jon has been half hard since waking up, and more than that since Tommy kissed him, so it takes no time at all for Jon to be arching into the firm hold Tommy has on his hips.

“Tommy, please.” Jon’s not sure what he’s asking for, eyes opening, his hands fluttering around Tommy’s head, his ears, the back of his neck. Tommy looks so _good_ like this, his cheekbones on full display, lips dark from kissing Jon, from getting his mouth on Jon’s cock.

Tommy hums a little, and then his hands shift, coming down to cup the back of Jon’s thighs, spreading them wider. Lifting him up a little, skirting his thumbs in the crease there, down and down until he’s feeling out the space behind Jon’s balls, pressing in just enough so that Jon jerks, and Tommy pulls off and slaps his ass, lightly. Jon yelps, stifling the sound with his hand. 

“Have you done this before?” Tommy asks, the dry fingertips of one hand stroking gently back over his hole.

“Yeah,” Jon says. If Tommy can tell he’s lying, he doesn’t mention it.

Instead he nods and rolls off the bed, rifling through his bag, which he must have brought up with Jon’s earlier this morning. He comes back with a travel-sized bottle, and Jon realizes with a jolt he must have brought lube all the way from Boston. Tommy likes this enough to bring it with him in a perfect three ounce way. Did he pack it for _this_ , with someone else? Or does he just like it when he jerks off?

Would he want Jon to — to do what he’s doing to him in return, carefully coating his first two fingers before snapping the tube shut again. Putting them to Jon's ass and licking up his cock from the base while he strokes so, so slowly with just one.

He could do this, if Tommy wanted to. He wants to know if Tommy would get breathless, like he is, if Tommy would be this easy for it, because he can already feel himself opening up, one finger starting to slip in as Tommy laps at the head of his cock.

“That’s it,” Tommy says, and Jon shudders with how he can feel the words against his cock, with how Tommy’s moving his finger in and out, so slow, so gentle. Like he can sense Jon hasn’t done this. Like he really wants Jon to like it.

Like he’s looking out for Jon as he has for half of their lives.

The room is hushed, like the snow fell inside, too. The only sounds are the hiss of the radiators and the moans Tommy tells him not to stifle. Tommy’s gentle encouragements of, “Taking it so well,” and, “Wanna hear you,” that make Jon light up inside even more. Jon has no idea how much time passes before Tommy’s working him open on three fingers. He’s rocking back against Tommy’s hand, trying to chase the feeling.

He whines when Tommy pulls out, and Tommy laughs but it's not cruel. It's soft and fond, and then he's pulling at Jon again, yanking him down the bed so he can crouch over him, kissing the tip of Jon's nose and laughing again when Jon wrinkles his face up in response.

“You ready?” he asks, already rolling on a condom like he knows Jon is, which is just as well because —

“Yeah, yes, fuck. Please, Tom, want you—”

“I know, I know.” Tommy kisses him, long and deep. “I know. I do, too.” And then he's lining up his cock, pulling one of Jon's legs up around his hip with his other hand, pulling Jon to him as much as he's pushing forward.

Jon forces himself to breathe, face buried in Tommy's neck as he groans. It's still a stretch, and it’s the farthest thing from comfortable for a minute, but then Tommy’s tipping Jon’s chin up so he can kiss him again, and then again, and then so many times that Jon can feel his body relaxing, because all at once Tommy’s bottoming out, his cock sinking in to the hilt.

“Oh fuck,” Jon says, and Tommy’s watching him, just as wide-eyed. “ _Fuck_ , does it always— is it always like this?”

Tommy makes a sound like Jon gut-punched him and ducks his head into Jon’s shoulder. “Shit, Jon, you— you shoulda told me.”

“Wanted you,” Jon says, like that’s an excuse. “Wanted you so— jesus, do that again.”

Tommy does, moving in and out with little motions, angling his hips until Jon clutches at his back, short nails digging in whenever Tommy’s cock drags over an electric spot inside of him.

“Wanted you forever. Thought about you. About this. Wondered if you’d be like this, always hoped you’d be—” Tommy says, bitten off.

He’s moving faster now, an arm wrapped low around Jon’s back so he can move him however he wants. So he can keep him close, like Jon having his arms and legs tight around him isn’t enough. He’s dripping sweat onto Jon, and Jon can feel how slick his chest is all on its own, his skin slipping against Tommy’s with every thrust.

“I love you,” Jon says. He should feel stupid for saying it now, but he can’t help it with the way everything’s expanding in his chest, like his ribcage is opening up to the sun. Opening up to take Tommy in and keep him there.

Tommy laughs, breathless and happy, and he’s kissing Jon again, saying, “I love you, too, you have no idea,” against his mouth. “Not gonna last much longer, are you— you gonna come on my dick, baby?”

“Fuck. I can’t, ‘m close.” Jon reaches for his cock, but Tommy bats his hand out of the way, his grip firm as he fists Jon’s cock. It’s almost too fast, but it’s the perfect counterpoint to how huge he feels inside Jon, to how he hasn’t let up, how he’s taking him apart in so many ways.

Jon turns his face into his own shoulder when he comes, biting down and trying to muffle the way he cries out, but he hears Tommy echo him as he follows over the edge, snapping his hips in a handful more times, his hand still jacking Jon’s cock until Jon whines from oversensitivity.

“I know, I know,” Tommy’s mumbling nonsensically, his touch everywhere on Jon’s body, stroking all the skin he can reach with trembling hands as Jon shakes underneath him. Jon winces when he pulls out, but he holds Tommy close, reluctant to let him move away.

“We should clean up,” Tommy says, and Jon groans. “At least— here,” and then he’s moving, kneeling over Jon, pushing and prodding him back up the bed, so that Jon’s head is on a pillow again.

“Don’t go,” Jon says, pulling him back down. He lets his weight drop onto Jon, tucking his face beside Jon’s. He’s heavy. It won’t be comfortable for long, but for now it’s the best Jon’s ever felt.

“I won’t,” Tommy responds, splayed boneless over him. “Promise.”

Jon lies underneath him, half-listening to sounds filtering in from outside the room now that the radiators have clicked off. Snow plows driving through slush outside, what’s probably mice in the attic, the creak of the house as the wind rattles by. Tommy’s warm breath ghosts along his shoulder, and Jon runs his hands up and down Tommy’s spine until his arms are too heavy to move.  
  
  
***

Jon is twenty when his dad calls him into his study and tells him they’re expanding their reach in Chicago, and Jon’s going to be on the ground to make sure everything runs smoothly.

“The Outfit is amenable, and it’ll be good to get you out there, have people associate you as the face of the company, pretty boy and all.”

“Dad,” Jon says, ducking his head. He feels like a kid whenever the boss teases him, even though he’s mostly stopped doing it in front of everyone else. “Is Tommy coming?”

“‘Course,” the boss says. “Gotta have your second.”

The term makes Jon freeze for a moment, and he wants to protest. Tommy’s not his — but isn’t he? No one else is fit to be Jon’s right hand, especially since Tommy’s been raised to it. Jon doesn’t trust anyone else like he trusts Tommy. Can’t depend on anyone else to have his back like Tommy does.   
  
He doesn't want anyone else by his side, either. 

“You’re going in a month, Tommy’s already got all the details. Make sure you pack a coat, it’s fucking cold there this time of year.”

Tommy’s in the hall when Jon comes out of the office, grinning and bouncing on his heels. “Did he tell you?”

Jon scoffs. “Can’t believe he told you first.”

Tommy laughs and throws his arm around Jon’s shoulders, talking a mile a minute about all the places he wants to go while they’re in the city. Jon says the right things and agrees at the right places, but he can’t help the nerves in his stomach. He’s never been in charge and on the ground of an operation before. He’s planned a bunch and oversaw a few, but he’s never been this up close.

“What’s up?” Tommy says, when they’re near the kitchen.

Jon shrugs, feels the weight of Tommy’s arm across his shoulders. “Just nervous, that’s all.”

“Don’t be, man. You’re ready for this.”

Jon ducks under his arm and waves him off. “Yeah, I know. I’m sure it’ll go great. Piece of cake.”  
  
"Piece of cake," Tommy agrees.  
  
  
***  
  
  
It's starts snowing again that night, and it's still coming down the next afternoon, the sky steel gray with heavy clouds. Jon brews more coffee with the french press, shivering a little in the breeze from the window Tommy’s cracked open. He watches Tommy start to clean the handguns he’d gotten when they first arrived. He disassembles both of them, big hands moving with a swiftness and precision that makes Jon’s mouth dry.

Jon sits down across from him, sliding a mug over. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

Tommy cocks an eyebrow, but he doesn’t argue. Jon knows how to do this, probably just as well as Tommy does, even if he doesn’t get as much practice.

“Please,” Jon adds, and Tommy sighs, his forehead wrinkled. He’s worried about something. That something is probably Jon.

“Are you sure you’re—?”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Jon says, and he adds more sugar to his coffee, not thinking about dead eyes staring up at him. About a knife against Tommy’s throat. “I want to talk about this.”

Tommy nods and slowly walks him through it all. Tells him about soaking the bore with a patch and scrubbing the inside of the barrel, showing him each step, waiting for Jon to nod in understanding before he moves on.

By the time Tommy’s halfway through, Jon feels easier, lighter. Tommy must pick up on it, because he’s joking around a little now, moving through the steps faster. When he talks through lubricating the barrel and the exterior, Jon can’t help himself.

“Mhmm, what was that?”

“Shut up.” Tommy’s face is red.

“Do you find it’s helpful,” Jon asks, leaning forward and clasping his hands like he’s listening intently. “Lubing it up?”

Tommy laughs. “Don’t— this isn’t sexy. Don’t make this weird, you freak.”

Jon looks from Tommy’s face to his capable hands to the guns that are practically an extension of himself. He shrugs and stands up, stalking around the table while Tommy keeps a careful eye on him.

“Hey,” he says, a note of warning in his voice that Jon ignores. He repeats himself when Jon kneels in front of him, though it’s shakier now, with Jon on his knees in the kitchen of this borrowed house, hands reaching for Tommy’s waistband.

Jon can smell the gun oil when Tommy touches his cheek where it’s hollowed out, can taste it when Tommy traces his lips where they’re tight around his cock. He closes his eyes and goes down farther, focusing on that and the sounds Tommy’s making, the weight on his tongue. He feels like he could do this forever, if Tommy let him.

Tommy takes him back to bed, after, and they miss three calls from Tanya and lose as many hours.

The snow is still piling on that evening, all thick, fluffy flakes. They watch it add another layer to the street from the bay window, huddled together on the seat close to the cold glass. Jon makes a mental note to thank Elijah for the foresight for hot cocoa, a kettle, and liquor to spike it with. Not to mention enough dry food to get them through a fucking blizzard. 

Jon is tracing patterns onto the steamed glass when he gives voice to what’s been bothering him since they got here. “Do you think if we hadn’t— if you hadn’t come to my dad, to me. Would we have ever met?”

He feels Tommy take a sharp breath and hold it for a long minute before he lets it out. “I don’t know.”

“We could’ve,” Jon points out. “We could’ve gone to college together, or summer camp, or worked together, or—”

“Jon, it doesn’t. We did meet, it doesn’t matter.” Tommy’s voice has the edge it gets when he’s trying to convince himself of something.

Jon shrugs. “Maybe I want to rewrite history. Maybe we met in a different way, a different time, somehow. Some place with less blood.” Then he adds, softer, “Maybe we’d always—”

“What, find each other?”

“Yeah,” Jon says, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “Why not?”

“Jon.” Tommy’s staring at him, saying his name like it contains so much more than one syllable, one person’s worth. “ _Jon_.”

Jon has to kiss him then, pressing him to the icy window while he crawls into his lap, knees barely balancing on the window seat. “We would’ve,” he says fiercely. “I know it.”

“Okay, okay.” Tommy’s hands are on him, hot under his sweater, holding him close. “I believe you.”


End file.
